“I will spin this flax, but it will make more noise than my previous time. I cannot have any guards on duty—for if they hear my work, the flax will fail to turn into gold,” Gemma said.
The guards surrounding Gemma did not turn to gape at her—as Gemma was sure they longed to—but one of them shifted, and two of the guards who were holding spears tightened their grips so the wooden poles of their weapons creaked.
They knew what she was doing—or trying to do.
“I think not, Gemma Kielland,” King Torgen said, his bloodshot eyes narrowed.
“Then you won’t see a speck of gold,” Gemma said, her voice flat as she stared the King down.
Nobody spoke.
King Torgen and Gemma stared at each other. Gemma held his feverish glare. She knew if she looked away, he would tear into her.
“Father, you should give her a fair chance,” Prince Toril said. “If she, er, cannot complete the task it will hardly be her fault.”
King Torgen sneered. “Fine. The guards will stay on duty, but they will be stationed two hallways away.”
With this pronouncement, King Torgen walked away, four guards trailing behind him.
Prince Toril shuddered. When his father drew out of sight, he whispered, “That was dangerous. I can see why Lady Linnea thinks so highly of you.”
“Forgive me, My Lord,” Gemma said.
“No, I know what you were trying to do. It was an honorable idea, but he’s not desperate enough to give you whatever you demand. Yet,” the prince said as he looked at Gemma with a pinched expression.
“Thank you, My Lord,” Gemma said when she realized he expected some sort of reply.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you more. I’m working to keep flax fibers out of Ostfold for now. I hope that is useful. Will you be alright tonight?”
Thinking back to her time spent with the mage, Gemma cocked her head. “I think so.”
Prince Toril’s shoulders slumped with relief. “Great—I’ll tell Lady Linnea. Until tomorrow morning, then. I wish you all the luck in the world,” Prince Toril said before stepping away.
Gemma was herded into her new spinning room—which was considerably larger than the previous room.
“Sorry, miss,” a guard said before he swung the door shut. It clanked when it was locked, and thudded when the bar was slid into place.
“There goes that idea,” Gemma sighed. She glanced at a small, round table that was loaded with food. There was pickled fish, boiled potatoes, baked apples, cheese, fat slices of sour dough bread that was so fresh it was still warm, and a small block of butter.
Gemma’s stomach growled at the wonderful smells, but she forced herself to walk the perimeter of the room. The walls were wooden, but when she knocked, it seemed that there was some kind of stone behind the panels.
The window, Gemma eagerly saw, was again barred with wooden boards, but this room was located on the top floor. Unless she could fashion a very long ladder, Gemma would die climbing out.
“It doesn’t help anyway. I can’t leave, or the soldiers will be killed,” Gemma said. Not knowing what else to do, she wandered over to the table and started to eat.
After she finished her third potato, she turned to the mound of frayed blankets piled next to the table. As Gemma chewed on a chunk of baked apple, she unfolded a blanket, inspecting it with a critical eye.
“Might help,” she said.
An hour later, when the mage opened and shut the door with a deafening clank—that Gemma didn’t understand how the soldiers could miss—Gemma greeted him.
“Hello, Sir Mage,” she said before stuffing a piece of buttered sourdough bread in her mouth.
“Working on your next escape plan?” the mage asked in his throaty voice.
“Yep,” Gemma said around the bread as she continued braiding the strips of old blankets she had shredded.
“Rethinking your sacrifice?” the mage asked, walking over to the spinning wheel.
“Nope,” Gemma said. She tossed the sturdy rope/braid and blanket pieces aside and began gathering up flax fibers. “I’m just preparing.”
“I see,” the mage said, wetting his fingers and pulling flax fibers away from the already prepared distaff, maneuvering them so they circled the spindle.
“Will you have enough time tonight to spin all of this?” Gemma asked, dropping an armload of the fibers by the spinning machine.
“Yes. The machine will merely have to spin faster. If it appears that I am running out of time, I can always set up my spinning wheel,” the mage said.
“You have a spinning wheel?” Gemma asked, looking at his cloak with new appreciation.
“Yes. I carry a number of tool kits, spinning wheels, saws, everything,” the mage said. “I need them to work my craft-magic.”
“So you make magical items?” Gemma asked.
The mage shrugged. “Yes. But it takes quite a bit of time to make things from scratch. My more valuable skills lie in the ability to bestow magic upon regular items after they have already been made. It’s not often I get to make something truly magical, though.”
“Why not?”